


the heart aches when the lungs burn

by PickledTeeth



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Death, Debt Collecting, Goodbyes, Grieving, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, just in the beginning, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-27 00:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20939600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickledTeeth/pseuds/PickledTeeth
Summary: Arthur had an idea before the doctor even uttered those blasted words to him.  Honestly, it wasn't hard to piece together the multiple slices of evidence that had presented themselves.Cracked throat, as dry as the desert, as prickly as a cactus.Burning lungs that felt as though they were on fire.Coughs that carried a mix of blood and mucus out of his mouth and onto whatever Arthur coughed into.Death, it seemed, was inevitable.---------A heacannon/practise fic I ended up liking enough to post here





	the heart aches when the lungs burn

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just like a practise fic that I ended up liking and I decided to post here

"Where's the money?!"

His voice carries out throughout the farm he's currently on. It spooks cattle and goats and sheep into a bleating terror, a blind panic. The cattle threaten to run through the rickety old fence, calves bawling to their mothers, the bulls mooing in fear. 

Thomas Downes is in his hands with yellowing shirt balled up in Arthur's fists. The man is frail, weak, pitiful, and it makes Arthur's stomach curdle ever so slightly in disgust at how he snivels and begs. Cries he doesn't have any money to pay the debt back with. 

A man should be strong enough to provide for his family. A man should be able to fight back without cowering, tail tucked between legs. A man should be able to take more than a few punches before he really starts to black out.

Thomas Downes was not a man.

"You're pathetic, y'know? Can't even cough up the money without lookin' as though you're about to shit yourself in fear." Arthur makes sure to spit that sentence right in the man's face, practically hisses it, watches as the man's bloodshot crusty eyes spring open. It's struck a nerve, Arthur can tell. The man tries to fight back, wiggles in Arthur's grasp. He's so weak and boney and skinny its as though he's a child trying to move a mountain. 

"I said I ain't got money!" Thomas tries shouting again, but this time his voice is strained, as though he's holding back a cough. The man's cheeks hollow out as he takes a stuttering breath in. Breathes out, his breath smelling sickly sweet, "I haven't got anything to pay you with!"

"Oh, you have the money alright. You just don't wanna give it up, huh?" Arthur shakes the man aggressively, head lolling back and forth like he's lost strength in his neck. Black eyes, split lips, and purpling bruises mar the man's face, makes him look much older. 

Downes looks familiar. 

"I remember you." Arthur says, teeth gritting. Downes was the man outside the stables with a little rickety wooden table, asking for money to help the needy and homeless. He plead with everybody to help, and when he wasn't speaking, he was coughing into his elbow, "Yer that little rat tryna get people's money."

Thomas vaguely nods, eyes wide, throat moving as he swallows. 

"Was that what you was tryna use to pay for the debt? Other peoples money?" Arthur wants to laugh. Before he can, there's an odd choking sound. It's a subtle noise, building up and up into full on lung-wrenching hacking. Warm liquid is spewed from Thomas Downes' mouth. Arthur's face is completely coated in it, and in reaction, he drops the sputtering, heaving man down onto the ground. Thomas does not get back up, lays there with a dazed look in his eyes. 

Arthur snarls, wretches, and wipes his face with the back of his hand, very tempted to kick the man in the stomach for coughing on him.

The coppery smell of blood hits his nose like a train, coats his mouth, and he thinks about how long it'll take to wash out. 

He goes to beat the man again, fist poised in the air to strike Downes face when there's a scream. A plead more like, shrill and loud. It sends the barn animals into a frenzy again. 

"Stop please! That's my husband! He's sick!" The wife shouts in despair. She's stationed at the farmhouse on the deck, hands on the railings as she descends the wooden steps. She runs with dress hiked up in hands towards her fallen husband, son in tow just behind her, pale faced when his eyes land on his father. Arthur sniffs and spits onto the ground near Thomas, glares at both the woman and young boy. 

"When I come back, you best have that money." Arthur growls, points a bloodied finger at Thomas. The man seems to have lost all of his energy, head dropping to the ground in defeat. 

Arthur leaves while they dote on him. He leaves with a pounding heart, and a slight sickness in his stomach, the taste of Downes' blood in his mouth. 

\---------------

The next few months are a blur. So much of a blur. It's hard to keep track of the multiple twists and turns that keep happening to the gang. He tries, tries to record it in his journal. The little book is something of a memoir for his future self, some entries more of a warning of what not to do (or eat, as he found out after an experiment with a rather dainty looking pink flower), and some of what do to (and eat) when faced with situations. 

The next few months...they all wonder what's happening to the once proud Van Der Linde Gang.

And where it would go. 

\--------------------- 

Karen is the first to leave. The first to go. The first to gather her senses and say _fuck it. _

Arthur caught her packing up her clothes in the dead of night with the river rushing below the cave. The night, other than the river sloshing noisily, was eerily silent. As though the forest sensed the tension around Beaver Hollow, as though the animals knew to dare not make a single peep. 

Sniffs and muted hiccups reach Arthur's ears from his place by the campfire; glowing orange and dull red, crackling louder than the river itself. The smoke irritates his lungs to no extent, but he did not feel like walking over to Micah's direction in the cave to get to his caravan. When he first heard the crying, popping his head up with ears straining to listen, he thought she was grieving Sean again, bottle in hand. Not that he could blame her. 

Karen had been damn near drinking herself to death after the whole ordeal of Molly. Her alcohol consumption had been worse after Sean but this...

This was _bad_. 

It was rare nowadays to find her not smelling of booze, smelling instead of sweet wildflowers and campfire smoke. Now, drunken stumbles caused her to fall over, caused her to lash out in unbridled rage. 

Her and Miss Grimshaw's tension grew ten-fold after that shotgun was slugged into Molly's chest. Fights, loud fights that consisted of shouting. So loud that it dared to give away their position to the Pinkertons.

"She loved him you bastard!" Karen had screamed, voice kicking out for just a moment. Grimshaw had looked seconds away from slapping the life out of the poor girl before Arthur had stepped in. 

Karen didn't even look to make sure she wasn't being watched. Anyone that caught her would make such a scene that the whole camp would spring awake. Try and stop her. 

She shoves what little she had into her suitcase, unshed tears in her eyes. An angry scowl is painted across her face as she stuffs belongings after belongings into a dull brown suitcase. Glass whiskey bottles lay around her, empty, clean, sucked dry until there wasn't a drop left. Karen didn't hear Arthur approach up from behind; too enshrouded in her task, so much so, she didn't even notice Arthur until he tapped lightly on her shoulder.

"Just me." Arthur says after Karen whirls around, anger replaced with fear, hands dropping a box of jewelry to the ground. Small rings and earrings slip out onto her brown sleeping bag, scattering at Arthur's boots, clattering, softly clinking together. 

"It is just you." Karen says hoarsely, clears her throat, getting rid of the thick mucus making her voice sound deep. Her shaking hands start to pick up what she'd dropped, fingers pinching on the delicate earring hook on a large emerald pair. It dazzled everyone when it shone in the sunlight. A pair Sean got her if Arthur recalled correctly, the memory sweet and warm and happy. Unlike now. 

"You gonna run 'round and shout to everyone that I'm a coward?" Karen spat, but Arthur detected the slightest bit of fear wobbling in her voice. She closes up the jewelry box, tucking it into her bag gently underneath some blouses. 

"_No," _He wants to say. He wants to tell her he doesn't blame her one bit, how it wasn't her fault for wanting to leave, wanting to _escape. _He kept his jaw screwed shut, stares at her with a sort of empathy. 

She closes up the suitcase quietly, thumbing down the locks to keep her sparse belongings in place, and then she leaned back on her heels. Wipes her nose with the back of her exposed arm, smearing her dulling lipstick just slightly over her prominent cupids bow.

"You wanna know why I'm runnin'?" Karen whispers, so quiet, so softly, that Arthur barely hears it over his rattling lungs, his gurgly throat, "You wanna know why I'm runnin' from this hellhole of a place? From my _family_?"

Arthur remains silent. He feels like he can't speak, isn't _permitted_ too. Karen stands up slowly, dragging her suitcase with her, arms quaking, and lips trembling. She looks angry, but her eyes tell a different story. 

Fear.

Despair.

_Grief. _

"I'm runnin' because of Dutch. Micah. Grimshaw. There ain't nothin' left for me here anymore," Karen sighs shakily, wipes her nose again, "This..."

Karen sweeps her free arm around the quiet, sleeping camp, gestures to everything in vicinity. The caravans. The horses hitched in the trees. The sleeping members of the gang, just dark lumps against the campfire. 

"It started goin' downhill after Hosea died. Our era, our legacy..." Karen stares Arthur dead in the eye, though there is no anger flashing in them anymore, "It's coming to an end. We're either gonna get caught and die, or die because of Dutch's stubbornness." She juts her chin up as she takes a step forwards, "I'm sorry, but I don't want to die just yet. Not this way."

_Not at the barrel of a gun_, She seems to forget to say.

Arthur dips his head down, hides the shame in his eyes.

Shame...but for what? What is he shameful for?

His arms move on their own accord. They take the suitcase from Karen lightly, knuckles brushing against each other for just a brief moment. Tanned skin meets pale, scarred meets smooth. She's warm and he's cold.

Deathly cold. 

"Javier is on patrol." He rasps, throat like sandpaper, voice hoarse. Unhealthy. Unnatural. His voice is deeper than before on account of the copious amounts of mucus building up in his throat, "I'll take you where nobody's gonna see you." 

The suitcase was heavier than it should be. His throat itches with the intent of coughing. He keeps it held back, swallows the need, for fear of waking someone up with his hacking. 

Karen's eyes widen in surprise. 

"Thank you." She breathes, barely coherent, but it held the same intensity as though she shouted it to him. Karen's hands hike up her long, tattered skirt, and she follows. She follows without question. 

Down the path hugging the river where nobody was posted. Down towards where Karen waits by the river for Arthur to retrieve her horse. He takes a few minutes to sneak the horse past everyone, telling Javier in a quiet voice that he was taking the mare for a drink. 

"A favour for Karen. She's asleep."

He walks the mare down the steep path, towards where Karen is waiting. Now in the crescent moonlight...she's suffered. Face pale, hair unruly, eyes tired and puffy, red from crying, and it's so _sad _to see her like this. A strong proud woman, took nothing from nobody, a spitfire really...looked so broken.

And it makes Arthur all the more glad she's escaping. 

Karen hops on as Arthur slugs the suitcase on the back of her trusty steed. They don't talk, they don't speak. He pats her hand in a sort of goodbye, and she spurs her mare into a fast trot into the water. 

And Arthur...he waves a goodbye for the last time as she rides across the trickling river. 

To his surprise, Karen waves back.

\----------------------

Mary-Beth left soon after Karen.

A few days after. 

She was more secretive about her packing, small stints her and there that only Arthur noticed. He seemed to be the only one watching the emotional toll on everyone, tried to talk to people, but he found that they were more drawn back, more angry, frustrated, _snappy_. Dutch and Micah were too busy _stroking_ each other to notice their dwindling gang, and it pissed Arthur off to no end.

They were a _family _as Dutch described. Now, the only _family _he seemed to care about were the ones that followed his cynical thinking without question, blind loyalty, soldiers that didn't wonder, didn't deviate from their place in the gang.

Mary-Beth tried to keep up her cheery self in such dark light, tried to talk with everyone that walked by her little corner of the camp, all smiles and bright eyes and laughter on her lips. That sense of cheeriness only lasted for a few days before she gave up completely and decided to hang around Abigail and Tilly more. Just like everyone in the gang, she was losing faith...losing hope. 

And it _hurt_ to see. 

Arthur caught her walking towards her horse in the dead of night, small suitcase in hand and fear in her emerald eyes as she scanned the dark forest for any who tried to stop her. 

It's slightly windy out, just a light breeze that rolls clouds across the sky, a crescent moon striking beauty and light over everything. It keeps the mosquitos and flies down, the heat down, and offers a bit of freshness for Arthur's lungs. 

Arthur had been brushing his horse, Willy. A white Arabian he'd caught in the mountains after a bounty hunt, she was fast, reliable, strong, brave. Every moral Arthur found himself losing. 

Arthur heard the quiet crunching of leaves under boot before he saw her walk onto the path out of the corner of his eye. He kept brushing Willy, hoping Mary-Beth didn't see him. 

Unlike Karen, she saw him first.

A quiet gasp, rustling, and its a few seconds before she actually speaks. 

"Oh! Arthur!"

He turns in time to see Mary-Beth stuff her suitcase behind a nearby tree trunk quickly. He turns just in time to see the fear flash in her eyes and see her hands wring together in nerves, teeth rolling her bottom lip around so hard he was surprised she wasn't bleeding. 

"Mary-Beth. How've you been?" Arthur pretends not to notice the corner of her dulled green suitcase peeking out from behind her hiding place. She smiles, wobbly and not at all cheerful, not at all happy.

"Oh, y'know...thinkin' about how this is all gonna go." She says, nodding to the entrance of the camp. There are a few figures at the campfire, dark and silhouetted. They haven't noticed her leaving. Probably didn't even care. 

"It ain’t gonna be pretty." Arthur says truthfully, sorrowfully. Why lie now? The writing was on the wall, clear as day, painted in bright red paint, so obvious. Arthur nods to her suitcase tucked behind the tree, and her face falls into horror. Realization. 

"Where you plannin' on going?" He makes sure to keep his voice low.

Mary-Beth swallows, caught between flight or fight mode, body tense. Gestures lifelessly to the shadowed path ahead of them, illuminated only by the dwindling moon. 

"Anyway away from here." Mary-Beth sounds so defeated, lets her hands fall to her side, "This ain't the same gang I joined all those years ago."

Her voice sounds wistful, a sad type of wistful like she's reminiscing on the good ol' days. Mary-Beth swipes at a few tears escaping her eyes, sniffles, and grabs her bag from the tree, "I ain't gonna be mad if you tell anyone. Just give me a headstart."

It's so awful the way she says it. Defeated, so so defeated. Arthur's heart aches along with his lungs, along with his throat. She's scared he's gonna squeal like a stuck pig. 

He's not going too. 

"Get on."

Both Willy and Mary-Beth look at him, Willy with a more exasperated expression, Mary-Beth more shocked. 

_I just finished lugging you around all day! _Willy's intelligent brown eyes complain. Mary-Beth's face relaxes just a tad, but her feet remain planted. She looks as though she wants to get on the Arabian, but she's thinking, clearly. 

"I'll take you to Van Horn, and you can catch a train. Maybe a coach. Anywhere away from here." Arthur steps to her, takes her suitcase gently from her shock-still hands, "You deserve to live."

Mary-Beth swallows, still watching him, before she nods slightly, minutely. She hops on the back of Willy, strokes the horse's rump carefully. 

Arthur mounts on the front, in the saddle, holding her suitcase tightly as he kicks Willy gently. The horse sighs, shakes her head, and then takes off onto the path at a slow gallop.

For awhile, it's just Willy's hoofbeats filling the silence, thumping and deep, comforting almost. The trees are twisted around them, leaves falling like fairy-dust, moonlight streaking through wherever it can. The further they get away from camp, the more they all relax. Even Willy relaxes her tense muscles. 

Mary-Beth clings to Arthur's back when he slows Willy down just a tad, and he can feel her fingers dig into his skin, a strange wetness between his shoulder-blades.

It takes him a little to realize. She's crying. 

Stifled gasps, sobs, sniffles, but he can hear past the sharp wind Willy creates with her loping. 

For the first time in his life, he wants to hug her. 

"Who knew?" Mary-Beth laughs forlornly through her tears. Her laughter is short-lived, dissolves into cries again, "Who knew this whole thing would end like this? You helping me escape the same gang that took me in all those years ago after they found me pick-pocketing innocent people."

Arthur slows Willy down to a walk. They were far enough away from camp that they didn't need to run any longer. Willy seems to appreciate the change in gait. 

"You know, I dreamed that I'd write about the gang, about writing our little adventures." 

Arthur tilts his head back towards her, listening to her. She needed an ear, an anchor, and he would be one for her.

"All our highs, our lows, our mishaps like when you came back with porcupine spines in your ass. You accidently sat on it, remember?"

"Yeah, unfortunately I do." Arthur says with laughter hinting on his voice, "John was a little shit about it."

It hurts to think about that memory. So carefree back then, no Micah, no nothing. Mary-Beth's fingers relax on his waist.

"Remember when Sean first joined the gang? Awkward little thing, but you could practically hear the sparks fly when he laid eyes on Karen. Love at first sight," Mary-Beth sighs, clears her throat of mucus, "I remember when I was scared of you. Could you believe that?"

Arthur smiles just slightly as she giggles again, "Now lookit us. You're helpin' me run away from the very thing I lived for."

Van Horn peeks into view just over a hill. Tall looming buildings, old and forgotten, falling apart at the seams, it's a place full of crooks and fishermen. Willy follows the winding path with little resistance, neck arching forwards as she walks. The station is the first thing one would see as they walk into town. It's empty, barren, but Arthur in good mind could not leave Mary-Beth there by herself. He wanted to see her go. 

They approach the station, and Arthur hitches Willy at the front with very loose lead. He dismounts first, boney legs hitting dusty ground hard before he helps Mary-Beth off with hands on her waist. He holds her suitcase for her as they walk into the station. 

The clerk looks up at the sound of the door opening. 

"Ah, welcome welcome. Two tickets I presume?"

"Just one." Arthur gurgles. As the clerk gathers them, Arthur hacks into his elbow. When he pulls back, his blue flannel shirt is speckled with mucus glazed blood. 

Mary-Beth notices, and he really didn't want her too.

"Come with me." She whispers, hopefully, eyes pleading, and she grips Arthur's shoulder tight, "Come with me_ please_ Arthur. You can't die like this."

The clerk hands the ticket off and Arthur trades him with coin. She stares at him the entire time with wide eyes, emerald, watery, and her lips tremble, eyebrows crinkled together.

"Arthur _please_."

There's rumbling. 

The entire station feels as though it's shaking, and the wood creaks just slightly. The clerk sighs as he walks into the backroom, newspaper in hand. 

“Every single goddamn time-“ His voice is drowned out by the sharp whistle that resounds across the entire area. It's loud, annoying, ear-splitting. Compressed steam hisses out from gears. From where they are, he can see the train just nudging into view.

"Miss Mary-Beth," Arthur nods towards the train pulling into the station. It stops completely, and a few people step off with suitcases in hand, some with cigars in mouth and others with tobacco. They look sickly, frail, coal dust covering some of their faces as though they came down from Annesburg. Most likely. 

Arthur hands her the suitcase gently, having to pull her hands away from her side and onto the dulling handle with cracked paint, "I believe this is your train."

Mary-Beth's eyes water even more, and a few tears slip out, down her freckled cheeks. Her nostrils flare like she's about to break down crying, but she doesn't. She remains where she is, chin jutted out, white-knuckled hands gripping her suitcase. Arthur's impressed that the old thing hasn't broken under the pressure. 

"Arthur..." She chokes out.

"No," Arthur says almost angrily. He points to the train, "Get on that train and go. Get away while you can."

Finally, _finally_ she nods, head dipping down, tears falling from her chin and onto the wooden floor of the train station. 

"No use arguing with you. Yer as stubborn as Karen." She tries joking, chuckles, but its filled with sadness and grief. Arthur walks with her to the train, spurs clicking and wood creaking under what little weight he had. 

Mary-Beth puts her suitcase down before she gets on, and Arthur is about to manhandle her onto the train himself when she throws herself at him. Instinct tells him to move back and away from the hug.

But he doesn't.

Mary-Beth warm weight is welcome and comforting, her arms squeezing his neck just slightly. His shoulder is wet where her face is, and when she pulls away, she's full on crying. Tears and snot mingle on her chin.

"I'm going to miss you." Mary-Beth says hoarsely. And as she boards the train, back of her hand wiping her eyes and face clean, she smiles back at him. A real genuine smile. 

The conductor leans out the front of the train and waves his arm, "All aboard!"

It takes a few moments before the train whistles, before steam shoots out from the front engine, smoke billowing out. It starts moving slowly forwards, allowing anybody who hadn't made it on to get on at that moment. 

Mary-Beth waves goodbye for as long as she can in the small train window she is provided with. 

Arthur finds himself saying, "I'll miss you too," as she disappears around a set of trees. 

Never to be seen again.

\------------------ 

A few days after Mary-Beth and Karen disappeared was when Dutch realized they were gone. 

"Without a trace!" He shouts angrily on hot afternoon when everyone was already irritated at the mosquitos biting at exposed skin. They're gathered around him as he stands on a wooden box made for storing food. Micah stands beside him with an ugly look about him, crossed arms and regarding everyone with a scowl. Acts like he's second in command. Arthur and John share a look after the meeting is adjourned. 

"The hell is that about?" John had hissed, throwing a glare towards a certain somebody. Micah stood by Dutch as he smoked his cigar, talking in hushed whispers to each other.

Arthur was too angry to even answer John, and he went down to the river to cool off his emotions before he actually _killed _somebody. 

The next day is when things started to go downhill. 

"They are traitors to this gang. Lairs and thieves that I took in with the goodness of my heart when everybody else turned a blind eye to them, and this is how they repay me?" Arthur overhears one morning while he's trying hard not to gag and cough at the hot coffee sliding down his throat. Tried to enjoy it, but pain was never meant to be enjoyed. His cracked lips sting at the beverage and he considers just dumping out the entire pot. 

"Sounds like they weren't really loyal, huh Dutch? You gave em’ all you had and they threw it away." Micah eggs him on with a drawl only he can create. Eggs him on to the point where Dutch storms out of the camp to cool off, Micah following close behind like a lost puppy dog.

"But, Dutch, consider this-" Micah's voice trails off the further they get away from the camp. Arthur catches Sadie grimacing and rolling her eyes.

Arthur doesn't care to even eavesdrop on them anymore. Too tiring, too angering, and he had more important things to worry about. He sets down his mug carefully in his satchel, clears his throat again. Grimaces at the coppery taste of blood mixed with coffee that coats his throat. 

_Water. _

So he approaches Pearson’s caravan where they kept the fresh spring water cool and safe in the shade. Only when he gets there, Pearson isn’t where he normally is. Isn’t skinning the deer Charles caught for them the other day, isn’t preparing the pot of stew they eat in the evening. Arthur can indeed conclude that Pearson is gone after a quick sweep around camp. His bedroll is gone. His personal belongings gone. 

He’s left. 

Arthur’s relieved for Pearson, but a small part is betrayed. That betrayal doesn’t last long. It's all going to shit anyway, why stick around to find out what will happen?

“Anyone see Pearson?”

The timing is nearly comedic. 

Abigail stumbles out of the forest cupping Beaver Hollow. Her hands are clasped on her chest, a worried expression on her face, “I ain’t seen him all day.” 

His heart absolutely drops when Dutch comes stomping back to camp with a redness to his face and a Micah on his back. 

“Pearson? Gone?” Micah sneers, “Always knew he’d leave, the yellow-bellied-“ 

“Micah enough!” Arthur shouts so loud his voice nearly gives out, scratches cat claws against his already raw throat, “He’s probably out takin’ a piss or somethin’. He's a grown man.” 

Abigail shakes her head, waving wildly at the forest like she expected Pearson to pop out magically. 

“He’s gone! Ain’t seen him, and I made sure to walk around in case he was out there.” 

Bill raises his head from where he’s at by the campfire, knife whittling a small piece of wood. Wood shavings have gathered at his feet, and they blow away when Bill stands up. They all look to him as he approaches the little group. 

“I saw him walkin’ out last night. Didn't look suspicious, thought he was takin' that stupid mule for a walk.” 

Arthur is very surprised Dutch hasn’t popped a vein yet. He looks very close; fists clenched, face red, mouth slightly open in a fowl glare. 

“Well, look for him! He couldn’t have gone far!” Dutch orders with narrowed eyes and loud voice. So loud that Sadie looks from where she's standing by the ledge looking down at the river.

“What do we do when we find him?” Micah asks in an oily voice. He looks gleeful about this. Arthur curls his nose in disgust and tries to keep his tongue held. 

“Bring him back. I want to have a few words with our resident cook.” 

So, Arthur is put on patrol by himself.

Micah takes his two goons with him into the forest by the river, looking around with lasso's in hand. They take off through the thickly spread trees, up onto the path where they gallop towards Annesburg. 

Arthur jumps on Willy, who was very happy snacking on a raspberry bush before he came along, and spurred her down the path he took Mary-Beth on. The mare gallops quickly, as though she sensed his urgency, ears flat on her head, listening to him. 

“We need to find him first, girl.” Arthur whispers in a crackly voice. The horse nickers in response as Arthur breaks off into the trees. Willy’s legs scrape against bush and branches, high-stepping to keep from tripping up. He scans the ground for any sign of the other man as she lopes through. The forest floor is covered in pine needles and leaves, a few fallen branches threaten to trip Willy up if she weren't paying attention. She steps daintily over anything in her way, arching her neck in quite a powerful show. 

They walk around the forest for what seems like hours, with nothing to show for it. No trace, not even a lick of footprints that could possibly lead him to Pearson. 

The sun starts to set, the shadows grow longer, and the temperature drops into a chill. Arthur's about to give up and go back to camp to choke something down as food; its too late for anybody to be out searching. They're probably back at camp, talking, shouting, arguing. It's the only thing they do nowadays. 

Its not footprints or cans or trash that catches Arthur’s eye first. It’s a bottle. 

He's turning Willy around to trudge back up the path they made when he sees a glint of a bottle in the setting sun's rays. Rum, hard rum, the only type of liquor that an old sailor would drink whilst reminiscing about the past. It's nestled in a bush like someone _tried _to hide it. 

Pearson.

"The idiot's drinkin'." Arthur sighs under his breath. There's a deep set of footprints padding away from the empty bottle and towards a clearing. From there, he can see smoke spiralling out over the treetops like a grey cloud, and he wonders how he missed _that_, "_And_ he's got a fire goin'."

The smoke could alert Micah and his hooligans and then Pearson would be in really big trouble. Arthur had a sneaking suspicion that they weren't going to handle Pearson _nicely_ when they got their grubby hands on him. 

He clicks his tongue and urges Willy forwards. The closer he gets, the sound of a drunken man’s singing starts to peel through the air past the deafening sounds of nightly crickets chirping. 

Arthur sees Pearson there when Willy steps over a fallen log blocking the path into the small, wooded clearing. He's hunched over the fire with a bottle of booze in his hands, his face a drunken red. The man looks up at the sound of Willy crushing twig and bush. 

From where Arthur is, perched on top Willy only a few metres away from the drunk man, he can see the complete and utter defeat wash over Pearson's small eyes.

"Come to take me back, huh?" Pearson's voice is thick with booze. The man shifts sides from where he's sitting, throwing an empty bottle away (it rolls a few feet in the leaves before clinking against a tree trunk) and digging around in his satchel for another one. Arthur can see at least two other bottles hidden in the bushes, the leaves. 

"You tryna drown yourself?" Arthur sniffs, gets off Willy, and approaches Pearson slowly, as though he were a wild animal. The man keeps his head down, watching the orange fire crackle and pop. It casts a warm glow on everything, and it would be relaxing in a different scenario. 

Arthur's knees and legs scream in relief when he crouches down to sit next to Pearson, and they both watch the fire for a brief moment. It's too hot for him under what little Arthur's wearing, and a thin line of sweat dots his brow, makes his clothes stick to his pale skin. 

He's gotten sicker. 

Other than the smoke, the fire never bothered him temperature wise. 

"You waiting for everyone else to come? To help you drag me back?" Pearson challenges suddenly, eyes hard, and it takes Arthur by surprise. He glares at Arthur, and it seems the man has found his courage he boasted about having in the Navy, "I ain't going back. Not without a fight."

"I didn't expect anything else...I ain't takin' you back."

Pearson's glare softens, and body takes into relief, "You're not?"

"Maybe a few months ago, I woulda," Arthur rumbles, guilt creeping into his voice. A few months ago he would've hogtied the man, thrown him on the back of Willy, and shouted obscenities at the man. He would’ve been cruel about his capturing ways, he would’ve made sure the man never escaped again, "But not now. There ain't nothin' here for us no more."

There isn't. 

There isn't anything left for anybody. Not anymore. There dreams, plans, money-making schemes...all out the window now. Dutch seemed to be descending deeper and deeper into madness, spiralling down and down until he would grow out of control. 

_One push, _Arthur thinks, _One push is all it'll take._

"Few months ago I was following Dutch blindly. A few months ago everybody was alive and happy, and complaining about my food," Pearson says as he brings the bottle to his lips. His teeth clack against the glass harshly as he gulps down a few swigs, and he lowers the bottle, "Everything's changed. It's hard to believe how much things have taken a turn. Just a few weeks ago I was talking with Hosea over coffee. Now..."

Pearson swallows another big gulp of rum and passes the bottle to Arthur. Arthur takes it, not really caring how much it'll burn and sting on the way down his throat.

"Now Dutch's gone off the deep-end and Micah seems to be taking over." Pearson sighs, looks up at the sky, "What I'd give to turn back time."

"Go back to the way things were. No O'Driscolls. No Pinkertons. No Micah." Arthur says as he takes a drink. 

_No tuberculosis. _He leaves unsaid as he struggles to keep the burning promise of a cough down in his lungs. He swallows it, eyes watering at the effort, and clears his throat. 

Arthur looks at the forest looming around them, darkening as the sun begins to set. The branches look like fingers reaching for the sky, gnarled and overgrown, few leaves clinging on. The breeze rustles them slightly, fireflies in the distance twinkle like fallen stars. Willy’s eating away at grass nearby, soft rips and chews coming from her. 

"You should get goin'." Arthur says to Pearson's flushed drunk face. The man looks at him for a solid minute, as though he's searching for the underlying joke in Arthur's eyes. Maybe he's worried that Arthur's going to get him to run, forcing him into a trap set by Micah and his lackeys.

No.

"I sent Mary-Beth to the train station in Van Horn. Go there," Arthur paws out a wad of cash from his satchel and slips off thirty dollars. He hands it to Pearson, "Use this. Find a home or anything and start making money that ain't bloody."

Pearson takes the cash gently from Arthur's boney, pale fingers. He inspects it with curiosity, gratitude, and a bit of shock painted across his face.

"Y'know, out of everyone in the gang, you complained the least." Pearson says, folding the cash up and stuffing it into his pocket. Arthur smiles with chapped lips, the action stinging from how dry they were.

"I know."

They drink the last bit of rum in the bottle before they get up. Arthur helps Pearson pack everything. He helps pack in silence, as though talking would break a sort of unspoken rule. He helps load everything on Pearson's mule, a dopey brown thing hilariously called Donkey, and he makes sure Pearson is all set to go. 

"I'll be sure to write to you when I can, Arthur," Pearson says as he hops onto the strong mule. Before he even kicks the thing into a gallop or a trot or a walk, Pearson turns back to Arthur.

"Y'know, you've changed. You're more...forgiving than you were when I first met you. Just a little less angry." Pearson smiles and Arthur feels his pale sweaty face heat up in embarrassment.

"Alright, alright get goin' before I change my mind." He says all in good fun. Pearson chuckles heartily as he urges Donkey forwards, and as he disappears into the forest, he waves back to Arthur.

Unbeknownst to Pearson, he just said his last goodbye to Arthur.

\--------------

Arthur finds Uncle passed out drunk in the middle of Van Horn with a beer bottle resting on his belly. 

He's been missing for about a week now, managed to slip away whilst everyone was looking for Pearson. He's snoring, causing a few people to look down on him in disgust. None offer to help the old man.

Arthur however...

"Wake up!" Arthur shouts, kicks his leg harshly, right at the shin, and Uncle shoots awake immediately, bottle falling off and smashing into the pavement below. People around Arthur jump at the sudden outburst, hands flying to chest or revolver. But when they see its a sickly old man with an even older man, they relax. 

Uncle's face is red. It's either from booze or embarrassment. 

"Arthur!" Uncle laughs nervously as he slowly rolls up onto his feet, "Fancy seeing you here in...uh..."

"You don't have a clue where you are."

"Oh of course I do! Van Horn." He sounds proud of himself that he got the name of the rundown town he's in. That moment of pride is short-lived however as the old man looks around Arthur's shoulder. Behind him is just Willy, standing on the side of the street, pearly white coat just a bit dirty from a seven hour long ride. 

He’d been visiting Sean’s grave. Left flowers on the top and said a prayer. Though, he didn’t know what to believe in anymore. Arthur had been riding around for about the same time Uncle’s been missing; he’s been trying to find and pay respects to everybody that perished along the way. 

Jenny Kirk. 

Davey Callander. 

Sean. 

Kieran. 

Molly. 

Hosea and Lenny. 

It hurt. It hurt to visit each grave whilst dying himself. They died for the gang. He’d die because of his own stupidity and blind loyalty. 

"You...uh...here with anyone? Besides your horse of course..." Uncle breaks the silence with his muttering, secretive like, those eyes peering around for any possible trap.

Just Willy, who snorts in response, peels her lips back to scratch her tongue against her teeth. Such a beautiful, regal animal with her tongue out seemed to be a little less of an eye-catcher. 

"Just her." Arthur says, reaching out to pat the horse's face. Willy closes her eyes appreciatively at the soft pats, presses her head into his hand and sighs.

Uncle, himself, sighs in relief and shuffles a little closer to Arthur. His boots scrape against the cobblestone as he moves, kicking the glass shards from his dropped bottle. The man smells of booze and unwashed clothes.

It makes Arthur’s stomach curl. 

"Dutch lookin' for me?"

Arthur wants to burst out laughing, but he’s afraid it’ll only dissolve into a severe coughing fit. So shakes his head as he retracts his arm back from Willy.

"You ain't worth the trouble. In fact, they was glad you left when Pearson did." Arthur states.

No. They weren’t glad.

They ran around like headless angry chickens and practically turned up every rock to find the old man. Arthur joined the search, halfheartedly. They gave up looking for him only two days after he disappeared. 

"He's just a crazy old man, Dutch. Who's gonna believe him if he shouts about running with the Van Der Linde Gang." Micah had said one night after an unsuccessful search party, "He's probably dead by now anyway."

Uncle sputters, turns even more red, and gestures to his back wildly. Meanwhile, Arthur moves to lean against the nearest building. Sure as shit, it was the saloon. The old rotting wood digs into his back, all spine and skin. No muscle left. 

A stagecoach rolls by in the small window of silence, the driver clucking his tongue to the two shires pulling up front. 

"It ain't my fault I can’t work y'know! I got-"

"Loonbage or whatever it's called. The fake made-up disease you diagnosed yourself with." Arthur says as he draws up a cigarette. In the back of his head, he wants to put it away, but right now, he needs a bit of a relaxer. 

His nerves were frayed, cut down to the bone. Arthur barely goes back to camp anymore, Dutch and Micah and Micah's buddies becoming quite insufferable as of late. Thinking they needed a tighter leash on everyone, kept track of wherever anyone was going. Arthur got the lucky leash it seemed, the one that let him go wherever he pleased.

"Unlike those _traitors_, Arthur is not going to run away. Right _son_?" Dutch had said. His ringed hand had gripped Arthur's protruding shoulder tightly, an unsaid warning in his eye. 

_You'll be sorry if you run away,_

"It's called Lumbago you big dumb oaf," Uncle snaps, breaking Arthur from the memory. "And a _real _doctor diagnosed me with it."

Arthur rolls his eyes, as he lights the cigar hanging between his lips. The embers burn brightly in the waning sun, a small trail of smoke rising into the sky to mingle with the clouds.

"It ain't like I can help it-"

When Arthur inhales the tobacco and nicotine, it feels as though he's breathing fire, literal fire, down his throat, into his lungs. From there it spreads wildly, all over his body, finds every nook and cranny and digs in with sharp claws of pain. 

Arthur cannot help _but _cough. It's violent, feels as though his throat is going to rip out from its place and splatter against the ground. He doubles over, drops the cigarette against the ground, can't even stomp it out. His lungs push out air faster than he can get it in, faster than he can calm down his raging throat. His hands come up to cover his mouth. 

"Hey woah now! Take it easy there Arthur," Uncle moves beside him, places a hand on Arthur's heaving back, right between the shoulder blades. Right along his protruding spine, "Jesus, you're all skin and bone."

He can't breathe. He can't breathe and his vision is blooming with dark flowers. 

Arthur gurgles, draws up whatever mucus is still left in his throat after the episode, and spits it onto the ground. There's very little mucus left now, mostly cherry red blood from both lungs and irritated throat. 

Uncle steps back as Arthur straightens. Arthur wipes his mouth against his exposed forearm, breathing hard, trying to balance out his inhales and exhales properly. The other man's eyes are filled with worry, raw worry, something Arthur hasn't seen in years from the laidback man. 

"You seen a doctor?"

Arthur nods, takes a giant breath in before he starts to drink in air normally. He licks his dry lips with an even dryer tongue, and his throat burns for any sort of drink.

"Yeah...it ain't good." He rasps like he has nails in his throat. 

Arthur moves to Willy's saddlebag and pulls out his water canteen. Tips it up as Uncle watches from his spot on the pavement. It’s ice cold against his dry mouth, practically burns as it goes down. He gulps like his life depended on it. There's a moment of relief from the water on his throat, but its short-lived and his throat turns back to being as dry as the Nevada desert.

"Tuberculosis." Arthur gurgles, throws the canteen back into Willy’s saddlebag as Uncle's face absolutely drops.

"How long have you had this?" Uncle sounds betrayed, maybe even a little angry.

"Since Downes."

Willy leans into him, arching her neck around so her dished face watches with pricked ears, and she nickers so quietly only her grey nostrils move. She noticed his change in mood, somber and quiet after uttering that cursed word. 

Downes was only ever mentioned over a campfire one evening. Downes was ridiculed and mocked by Arthur _himself_, and he had laughed with his friends about the way the man snivelled and begged and pleaded and cried like a babe. Laughed and mocked and laughed again. A cycle that repeated over and over again until everybody was too drunk to walk back to their respective sleeping places.

Now...

It seemed Karma was biting him back _hard_. 

_A life for a life_. 

"This is serious. Why didn't you say anythin’?"

"Course it's serious." Arthur scoffs. His hand drops from Willy's soft flank, "Didn't want anybody to fret over something like this. Had enough to worry about."

Uncle runs a hand down his face, flesh scratching against beard.

"You're the only one who knows 'sides Mrs. Adler," Arthur admits as he steps back onto the sidewalk. Leans against the wall where he once was, the speckles of blood on the cobblestone reminding him where he stood just minutes before. 

Uncle hangs his head, places his hands on his hips, "So this is goodbye then, huh?"

The usually cheerful old man is solemnly sorrowful now, and Arthur swears he sees a few tears in Uncle's eyes.

"Yeah...it is. 'Fraid I ain't gonna see the end of the week, but I've thought that every day."

"How do you live like that Arthur? Knowing you can die at any moment?" Uncle's voice is terse and tense, watery, like he's holding back tears. 

"Got used to it I guess. Started 'preciating life when I woke up."

Uncle swipes his eyes quickly, sighs again, clears his throat and straightens. He points to the shady looking bar just behind them with his thumb, "Up for a drink with an old friend? One last time?"

Arthur looks at him abruptly, shock filling his chest, his head. His throat tightens at what the old man says, and he doesn't like how his emotions are running wild.

"We ain't friends." Arthur says, but he follows a chuckling Uncle into the bar anyway. 

They drink. They drink lots and Arthur tries not to cough and alarm the old man into a heart attack. When the few that slip out do, Uncle gets the bartender to grab some water. But when those spells pass, they go back to talking in hushed voices with each other.

When they're done, its pitch black out, the moon shining against the still water on the other side of Van Horn. It's peaceful. The lighthouse shines its bright lamp across the water, illuminating ducks and birds, fish jumping out of water, boats floating peacefully on the surface.

Uncle hops on his horse, Neil III, with a grunt.

"Wait old man," Arthur says before the man can go galloping away. Uncle looks to him, holds Neil back as Arthur reaches into his satchel.

"Here," He takes out twenty dollars and hands them to Uncle, "Take this."

Uncle, at first and to Arthur's surprise, shakes his head.

"Naw I can't take that."

"Yes you can. Ain't like I'm gonna use it."

It takes a few moments of silence before Uncle stoops down and takes the money gently from Arthur's hands. 

"Thank you Arthur."

It's sincere, a bit of sadness eating away at it.

Arthur dips his head as Uncle turns Neil away down the road towards Saint Denis.

"Goodbye Arthur. I’ll see you in the next life."

And with that, Uncle kicks Neil into a fast gallop, and he's peeling down the path.

"Goodbye...friend."

\--------------

Reverand Swanson is high as a kite when Arthur catches him trying to sneak through the river. He's up to his hips in water, clutching his bag of belongings to his chest as he tries to find his footing in the riverbed. He's so obvious about his leaving that Arthur is very surprised Dutch and Micah haven't cracked down on him. 

"You're a goddamn fool." Arthur growls. He only caught Swanson since he was riding Willy down that way, was going to hunt a nice deer or a few turkeys to keep everybody fed. Skin them himself and have Abigail cook up something nice for Jack and John. He didn't want to touch the food for fear of contaminating it and making everybody sick. Sick like him. 

Swanson looks behind him at the sound of hooves trotting down the dusty path. There's a wild fear in those bloodshot eyes.

"Stay back!" Swanson cries. He stops in the middle of the river which is swollen from a recent thunderstorm. Arthur's scared the man is going to be swept away towards downstream with large rocks and boulders blocking the way where nimble Willy cannot go. 

Arthur halts Willy with a gentle pressure on the bit. Stares at the man in confusion for just a moment while Swanson collects his bearings.

"What're you doing you crazy bastard?"

Swanson hears him, reaches down in what exposed pocket he has left and draws out a pistol. For a moment, Arthur thinks he's going to get shot by him. A man high on morphine and booze. 

Swanson holds it in the air like it's a threat.

"You're going to let me leave, Mr. Morgan." He shouts back to Arthur, fingers shaky on the gun. Arthur rolls his eyes, leans against his saddle horn, swallowing down a cough, "You're going to turn around and let me either drown in this godforsaken river in this godforsaken country or let me leave and never come after me."

Swanson cocks the gun with a crazed look in his eyes, thumb shaking and soaking wet. He's completely soaked in water, and it makes Arthur wonder if the man fell down on the way into the river.

"What's the gun for then, Reverend?" 

Swanson falters just slightly, arm coming down so his elbow is in line with his shoulder, "To shoot, Mr. Morgan."

Arthur rubs his mouth, lets it fall against his chin, watches as the Reverend licks his lips nervously, gun still in the air, "How about I help you?" 

Arthur doesn't really want too, but he doesn't want Swanson to die of his own stupidity. Swanson's arm drops down completely, gun submerged in water, makes Arthur cringe. That could've been useful.

"You will?"

Arthur nods, "But you have to let me come get you."

_So you don't drown and die,_

Swanson sniffs, licks his lips, wipes his face with the back of a wet forearm. Nods soon after with a dulling fear in his eyes. Realization takes over and he shoves the gun back wherever he got it from. 

Arthur urges Willy into the water with a slight pressure of his heels. She splashes noisily in, dropping her hooves into the river as though they were weights. She never really liked water, with the way she craned her neck to watch the way the foam swirled around her feet, the way her coffee brown eyes widened at the sensation of river water soaking her normally dry legs. 

"C'mon sweetheart." Arthur croons to her. They're near Swanson, who waits, shaking from cold or fear. When they get to him, Swanson grips the back of Arthur's saddle, tries to haul himself up. He can't, fails, kicks Willy on the rump multiple times. Too Willy's credit, she stays still.

"Too outta yer mind to mount a horse." Arthur disapproves. He grabs the Reverends meaty arm and hauls him up with what little strength he had left, Swanson kicking his legs over onto the mare's back. Willy bends just slightly at the weight of two men, and she stomps the water in a disapproving way. 

"Easy girl." Arthur pats her neck soothingly. After checking Swanson's on properly, and not slipping backwards into the water, he clicks his tongue to get Willy out of the water. Willy does not need much urging. She splashes noisily out, picking her path along the way, hooves sinking into the soft riverbed. Swanson grips Arthur tightly, watching the water swirl around Willy's legs. Once Willy’s on dry land, she relaxes with a sigh, shakes her body profusely to get rid of any excess water. Nearly caused Swanson to fall ass over tea-kettle onto the bank, and Arthur saves him in time. 

The bank is rocky, pebbly, unforgiving under bare-feet. A few feet to the front, there's tall thick trees everywhere one looked, and atop a slight incline upwards was a path that led straight to Annesburg. The smell of pine and evergreen is strong. It makes Arthur's lungs ache. 

Swanson clings to Arthur, shivering, clothes soaking Arthur's own dry ones. His fingers dig uncomfortably into Arthur's boney, thin hips. Soaks his clothes, makes droplets run down his own warm skin. There's a part of him that wants to drop Swanson off at the bank where Willy stood. Get rid of him right then and there, leave him to snivel and cry and wander around like he wanted.

There's another larger part that just can't do it. 

Sighing, Arthur clicks Willy into a trot up the incline and onto the path, towards Annesburg. There, he can drop Swanson off at the gunsmith so the other man can rent a room. 

"Where are we going, Mr. Morgan?" Swanson say with chattering teeth behind Arthur. Willy flicks her ears at the gravelly sounding voice as she climbs onto the dusty trail. 

"Annesburg. Think you've been there before?" Arthur answers, tilting his head to look at Swanson slightly. The man's normally dishevelled hair is even more dishevelled from his dip in the water. Droplets drip off the frayed ends, and Swanson's face is sunken in, pale as the moon, eyes circled with black. 

"You been hitting the morphine again, haven't you?"

Swanson goes stock-still, those fingers tighten even more against his skin.

"No. I am a man of God, and a man of God does not do drugs, _Mr. Morgan_." Swanson sounds offended, spits out Arthur's name like venom on his tongue. But there's an underlying bit of guilt hidden in his speech. 

“You ain’t ever been this pale before.” Arthur comments. Swanson casts his eyes to the ground.

“I can say the same likewise.”

They ride the rest of the way in silence. It’s uncomfortable, unwanted, but Arthur didn’t feel like striking up a conversation with a man high off his rocks. They pass a few riders who don't even say hello to the two men. Willy keeps a steady pace the entire way, her hooves clopping filling the silence between them. 

“You believe in God, Mr. Morgan?” Swanson says suddenly just a mere fifteen minutes into their journey. Willy’s is walking slowly along the path, and Arthur is keeping a lookout for anybody he might know. Keeps a hand close to his gun just in case. 

“Why?” 

“Because I am starting to doubt my beliefs.” 

“That so?” Arthur can’t hide the shock from creeping into his voice, can’t keep it from getting into his words. 

“The only thing I suppose I believe in now is morphine,” Swanson sounds guilty, and he hunches his back over to hide his face just slightly, “The Lord is a higher being yes, but...”

Swanson swallows, “Where is he in our time of need, Mr. Morgan.” 

Arthur feels as though it’s not a question, more of a statement. 

“I ain’t exactly the man to be talkin’ too about this.” 

“You’re the only one I _can_ talk to at the moment.” 

Arthur sighs, lets his hand drop to his thigh, coughs in his throat. 

“Maybe he is here. Sent me to help you today when you coulda just drowned in the river.” Arthur feels awkward talking about this. 

Swanson, however, seems to be pretty confident about it. 

“You think so, Mr. Morgan?” 

Arthur looks back to the trail ahead of them, taking in the sight of the trees and boulders and winding path, “Maybe.” 

They fall silent after that, and they get to Annesburg in under an hour. It’s nearly dawn when they ride in, and the gunsmith is turning his little _open_ sign over when Willy pulls up to the hitching post. 

Swanson dismounts first just as Willy stops, and he stumbles on his own feet, nearly trips over onto his ass. Willy snorts at him, and Arthur thinks she rolled her eyes. 

“You moron.” Arthur says under his breath. He dismounts Willy with a pat to the neck before he grabs the Reverends arm and helps him up the rickety old stairs. 

The gunsmith looks up from his catalogue at the sound of the little bell jingling. 

“Haven’t even been open for more than five minutes. You Americans love your guns don’t you?” The man speaks with a thick accent Arthur cannot pinpoint. The gunsmith leans against the countertop, closing the catalogue and tucking it aside. Arthur shakes his head, rests Swanson against the stand, gives a break for his aching shoulders. 

“Just need a room for this feller here.”

Swanson goes to dig in his pockets for what feeble amount of money he has when Arthur hands the gunsmith a couple of coins. Swanson stares like a deer in the train-lights at Arthur.

"Just around back." The gunsmith says as he places the money into his cash register. Arthur tips his hat in a _thank you. _He leads the way out of the store, and Swanson follows numbly when Arthur opens the creaky wooden door. The bell twinkles as a reminder. 

“You didn’t have to do that Mr. Morgan.” Swanson gurgles as they turn the store corner. The grass underfoot is worn out and dusty, path treaded multiple times, and the little room up ahead is exactly that; little, wooden, probably only one bed inside with a fireplace. Enough for Swanson to survive one night. Arthur shrugs, watches Swanson climb up the stairs slowly with his hand on the railing. He mainly uses it as leverage, like he hasn't found his balance yet. 

“Feelin’ charitable.” 

Swanson smiles, wrinkles defining on his cheeks, hand resting on the door handle to his room. 

“Thank you Mr. Morgan. You may have saved my life yet again.” 

“I know I saved your life again, Reverend.” Arthur says, chuckling slightly. It dissolves into a sort of a cough, if one can really call it that. Swanson watches as Arthur digs into his satchel and flips out a wad of cash. 20 dollars are pinched between his fingers. 

“Take this. You need it more than I do.” Arthur croaks, fighting the urge to cough even more. Swallows it down, bites on his tongue so hard that it nearly bleeds. 

Swanson tilts his head as he takes the cash gently, fingers shaking, nails dirty. 

“You’re not afraid I’m going to spend it on something other than food or shelter?” His eyes imply booze and drugs and other ungodly things. 

_I’m gonna be dead anyways, so it doesn’t matter,_ Arthur wants to say. He doesn’t. Doesn't want to worry Swanson more than he is, doesn't want to draw attention to himself. 

”I don’t care whatcha do with your money. If you run out, you run out. That’s not my problem.”

Swanson sighs, nods, shoves the cash into his pockets like he can’t believe Arthur’s giving him money.

“You're right, as always...goodbye Arthur Morgan. It was...it was a good run. May God be with you."

“Goodbye Reverend.”

And when Swanson closes the door, locks it with a click, Arthur breaks out into coughing. Coughs so hard his vision turns black and his head pounds. 

\---------------

Willy.

The once proud white Arabian mare who walked through hellfire to save him...is dying.

She's dying under his hands. Her beautiful coat is red with blood, multiple bullet wounds marring her muscled body. She breathes hard, eyes turning glassy, her hide sweaty from fear. 

She's dying.

And Arthur can't stop it.

John seems to recuperate faster with Old Boy, saying a quick goodbye to the stallion before standing up with gun in hand, looking wildly from side-to-side, poised to strike. Old Boy died on impact it seemed. The horse didn't move after he went down. Willy is still alive, even after getting shot five times. 

And Arthur...he stays with her. Like Willy stayed with him when those O'Driscolls captured him. Like Willy did when she hauled him back to camp for what seemed like days. Willy was always there with him.

So he made sure to be there for _her_. 

Willy's eyes slowly drain of that spunky life they once held, her body slowly relaxing against the dirt. Her legs stop kicking, her tail stops swishing. Her grey nostrils move as she nickers to Arthur, ears flicked towards him, and Arthur swears he sees her eyes water. 

Arthur can't hold back the well of tears that build up in his eyes. He doesn't stop them from slipping down his hollow cheeks, he doesn't try to keep the lump out of his throat. 

"I'm sorry girl." He chokes out. Willy blinks, looks to him, and he swears she's saying _It's okay. _And that hurts Arthur more than any bullet could.

"Arthur! We gotta go!" John shouts hurriedly from his place by the treeline. He's covered in blood, Old Boy's, thumb clicking down the hammer on his gun. His eyes swing back and forth between the trees, keeping lookout for any sort of ambush by Pinkertons or Dutch. 

"Gimme a minute!" Arthur doesn't care his voice cracks quite harshly when he shouts back.

Willy nickers to him softly, raises her head and presses her nose into Arthur's palm. Breathes in deeply, exhaling even more deeply. She goes still right after, breath leaving her nose, tickles his pale, cold hands, warm. Happy. 

Arthur chokes back the need to sob. Chokes it down. 

Strong Willy he found in the mountains. Strong Willy who bucked him faster than an angry bull multiple times, who ran through gunfights when he whistled, who killed a cougar stalking up on him...she was gone. 

_This is no time to cry._

"Thank you." Arthur whispers instead. He pats her ears one last time, and takes in the sweet smell of hay she always carried with her, before he leaves to join up with John. 

\--------------------

It's the end. 

It's the end and he's not dying peacefully in his sleep like he wanted. Instead, Micah beat the absolute shit out of him, left him on that godforsaken mountain to die like a dog in the streets. He'd preferred maybe a bullet to the head. It seemed Micah wanted him to suffer for as long as he could. 

Arthur rolls onto his stomach, wheezing quite pathetically in his opinion, and took whatever strength he had left in his dying body to crawl. Crawl on elbows and legs to try and find a more suitable place to die.

_I will not die here,_ That thought pushes him forwards. It's powerful, keeps his skeleton-like arms slamming down onto the stone to try and get a little friction for his bleeding, cracked fingers. 

_I will not die like some rabid animal here, _

There's a slight incline ahead of him that leads to a ledge. There, he can see the dwindling rays of the rising sun, streaking yellow and purples and blues across the sky. 

The whole world seems to be happy in spite of what is happening to him. 

He's dying and the world is living. 

The birds start tweeting good mornings to their companions, coyotes start yipping down below the mountain, and the crickets cease in their beautiful harmony. He can hear elk and deer call to one another, sharp and shrill. A wolf howls somewhere in the distance. A duck quacks to its friends. 

As he crawls up that mountain, he realizes something.

He's at peace. 

He's at peace, finally, for the first time in his life. Arthur doesn't feel weighed down by any immoral decision anymore, he doesn't feel as though the whole world is pressuring him under some deathly weight. The more he crawls on the more he feels free. 

There's a boulder at the top of the incline, overlooking the valley, overlooking the wildlife and forests and living creatures.

Arthur feels his strength dwindling. The stone screeches under his dirtied nails, cold against his freezing body. There's a slight breeze that rolls through, ruffles his clothes as he crawls up the mountain with a painfully slow speed. He's amazed that he makes it to the top of the mountain without failing completely.

Without dying.

Arthur gets to the boulder before his body gives out entirely, before his lungs collapse in his chest. He rests his back against that boulder with a wheezy grunt, turns his head to look at the rising sun. 

And he sighs.

John and Abigail and Jack were safe. Mary-Beth was safe. Karen was safe. Pearson, Uncle, Swanson, Charles, Tilly...all safe. 

Arthur smiles, and this time it didn't hurt. Didn't sting his lips, didn't hurt his face. 

He smiles as he watches the sun rise for the last time, bright and bursting with colour. He smiles as the woods burst to life with creatures. Dainty deer step cautiously into a meadow. Elk stand proud and large near the trees, heads raised up with sharp calls springing from their mouths. Butterflies and moths and bees flutter carefree, going about their day. He smiles as the world goes on living. 

Arthur smiles, takes his last breath.

And he goes still with breath coming out of his mouth in a frosty cloud. 

Redeemed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone else actually break down in tears when Arthur died? Couldn't even see through my tears when John came onto screen, and when I actually could see I was met with the beautiful face of John in his mailboy hat and gross ass shirt.  
Everybody else's death was a bit of a shock but oh my fucking god did Arthur hit me hard. 
> 
> And the fucking horse! Willy died and that's when the tears started flowing and I WANTED TO THROW MY REMOTE AT THE TV SCREEN  
p.s. I like the idea that Arthur secretly helps everyone leave


End file.
